A Church Without Its Steeple
by eldritcher
Summary: Harry obsesses over a portrait and decides to take it on holiday with him to Swansea, to the little town of Mumbles by the sea.


"Have some scones," Molly told her victim, leading him none too gently to a seat at her kitchen table. The victim meekly complied. He had learned the futility of resisting her long ago.

"The Saviour's secret summer sojourn!" trumpeted the Daily Prophet.

Harry, Molly's morning victim, winced at the moving picture under the blaring headline. Somehow, and Harry promised himself that he would find out how, the Prophet had managed to find a kitschy photo of his sorry self at an Australian beach. It was from that time when Ron and Hermione had persuaded him into that appallingly florid pair of shorts. Had it been ten years ago?

"Where are you going?" Arthur asked, from his seat across Harry. He looked genuinely curious.

"Swansea," Harry muttered, biting into the delicious, sweet, buttery scone that Molly had provided him a plateful of. He loved how Molly's kitchen smelled of butter, eggs and cinnamon. It was always a tad too warm here.

"Swansea?" Molly asked, sounding quite irritated. "Are you still going on about that?"

Harry suppressed a sigh. Nothing good came of sighing in Molly's kitchen under her eagle eye, when responding to her criticism. He was grumpy now. He had tried, honestly and at great length, to explain his motivations to the family. It had not worked.

"Perhaps this will grant you closure," Arthur said gently, always willing to give Harry a chance. "Molly, let him go."

Harry carefully willed himself to not lose his temper. This business of holding his temper was becoming easier with age, he had found out.

"It is not about closure, Arthur," he said politely. "It is about a holiday. It is the Saviour's secret summer sojourn."

"At Swansea?" Molly asked, her voice a higher octave than it had been earlier.

* * *

Harry ambled back towards the great gates of Hogwarts. He was always weighed down by the history of his association with the school when he walked up from Hogsmeade to the gates. This day, however, the weight of the past seemed more stifling.

He had not ventured out in quite a while. The differences between the world inside Hogwarts and the world outside seemed starker each time he stepped out. He had not become reclusive, but his life now seemed to revolve around teaching and children. He liked being away from the limelight, he liked being far away from the Ministry and the Prophet both, and he had little ties to the world outside. There was Ron and Hermione, and the Weasleys, but they often visited him in Hogsmeade and he rarely had reason to call upon them at their homes.

As he reached the steps to the Entrance Hall, he saw that Minerva stood there, looking none too happy, as she strove to make conversation with Narcissa Malfoy. He frowned. He had not heard anything about the Malfoy widow returning to Britain. Molly would not have hesitated to tell him the news if she had known.

Narcissa looked the same as she had at her husband's funeral. Harry nodded to her politely and went to stand beside Minerva, wondering if he should leave them be but deciding to be there in case Minerva needed him. Narcissa did not look hostile and Minerva was a capable woman, but Harry was still haunted some nights by Hermione's screams in the Malfoy dungeons.

"Harry, I swear that you return plumper each time after a visit to Molly," Minerva said teasingly, her eyes holding a sparkle that Harry had last seen years ago. He decided to overlook the reference to his waistline, happy to see her so lively.

"What brings you here?" Harry asked Narcissa Malfoy. He would have once kept quiet and let his curious imagination concoct a hundred scenarios. Nowadays, he preferred to ask, rudeness and propriety be damned.

Narcissa's lips thinned in displeasure at the forward question, but she said, "I was here to sign some documents related to Lucius's place on the School Board. I should have done that years ago, of course. I hadn't known about it. The Headmistress corresponded with me recently regarding this."

Harry nodded. It made sense. Lucius Malfoy had been a man with his fingers in many matters. Narcissa would not have known all of them. She had, in Harry's eyes at least, seemed more a trophy wife than an equal partner in that marriage.

"There were also several possessions belonging to Severus that I found at the old Malfoy estate in Rheims," Narcissa continued. "I decided to hand them over to the Headmistress. I have no use for them. They hold sentimental value, but I thought there might be others who would value them more."

Harry smiled wryly. It had become something of a legend. The Daily Prophet had run wild for years with the tragic romance of the Saviour and the man who had saved him. It was tragic, of course. Harry had not borne Snape a whit of goodwill while the man had been alive. Harry had wept and loved after the man had died for him. It did nobody any good then, but there it was. The Prophet, friends, old enemies, acquaintances and general busybodies all considered it a tragedy unparalleled and sent him condolences every year on the anniversary of Snape's death.

Harry trudged on, beside Minerva, at Hogwarts, teaching students Charms, and he believed that he was a better teacher than Snape ever was. He remained inside the Castle walls to stay away from the condolences and the sad, pitying looks that he received if he dared step onto Diagon Alley. Even so, there were still occasions, as this one, where someone felt compelled to offer him something to alleviate his loss.

"Thank you," he told Narcissa. "I will be happy to receive Snape's possessions into my safekeeping."

Narcissa looked unsettled. Perhaps she had expected him to call the dead man Severus. He didn't know why he would. It wasn't as if he had ever known the man without smokes and mirrors. He was not sure that he mourned the loss of a beloved as the Daily Prophet declared often. He had happened to fall in love with a dead man, after the death had happened.

* * *

Later that night, Harry looked at the portrait of the Headmaster that hung in Minerva's office.

"Your waistline reflects the hospitality of the Weasleys," the portrait opined, looking neither pleased nor displeased upon seeing the visitor.

Harry smiled and settled himself in a comfortable, tattered armchair that Minerva had retained from Dumbledore's collection. He then set to opening the carefully packaged parcels that Narcissa had left. The man in the portrait cleared his throat, unhappy to be neglected. That hadn't changed, Harry reflected fondly. Snape hated being ignored.

"Narcissa Malfoy was gracious enough to give me a few of your possessions that had come to her keeping," Harry remarked.

He made sure to look up at the portrait, and felt a spike of warm pleasure as he saw the expected flush adorning the sallow features. This was one of the advantages in having Snape the portrait instead of Snape the man. The portrait could not hide and dissemble.

"You should be careful," the portrait muttered. "There might be Dark artefacts."

"I was a Horcrux for a good part of my life," Harry pointed out peaceably. "I hardly think a few Dark artefacts will do me in."

"Foolish boy," was the only reply.

Harry's eyebrows went up, not at the endearment (for endearment it was), but at what he held in his hands. Snape, even at nineteen or twenty, had been no less ugly than Snape had been all his life. However, Harry thought, running a finger carefully along the virile, sharp lines of the Muggle photograph he held, there was much to appreciate in the warm, naked, raw sensuality.

"What is that?" the portrait on the wall asked, none too pleased about being ignored.

"You wouldn't be happy with it," Harry predicted. "I am quite happy, however."

The portrait looked worried now. Harry blew it a kiss, picked up the rest of his parcels, walked out of the chamber, slid the door shut and whistled softly until he reached his chambers. There was a smile lingering on his lips when he fell asleep that night, exhausted by his passion spurred high in him after seeing the nude photograph of a man long dead. If Hermione had chanced to hear of his masturbatory exploits, she would have insisted on dragging him back to therapy again.

In his little dungeon under the stairs at Dursley's, while watching spiders and thinking of his dead parents, he had often idly speculated about holidays with family. He would have a family someday, he had decided then. He would have a family, and like the Dursleys, they would go to Swansea for holiday.

Harry had ended up alone, but for a portrait. He saw no reason, however, not to make his childhood wish come true. So he would go to Swansea on holiday, taking the portrait along. The portrait might have other plans, but Harry decided that his plan took priority this time.

* * *

Swansea was an ugly, lovely town. Harry agreed with Dylan Thomas on that. He ambled around Oystermouth Castle, taking in the sharp, salty sea-breeze. A tour guide droned on about Norman and Welsh princes. Harry felt sleepy. He decided to walk back to his digs. The portrait would be glad for his company. He had offered to carry around Snape the portrait, but had been refused. So he had left it hanging, facing the sea, hoping that the sights would please Snape.

At the little tavern where he had paused before heading back to his rooms, he had heard an old rime.

_"Mumbles is a funny place,_

_A church without a steeple,_

_Houses made of old ships wrecked_

_And most peculiar people."_

He had then thought that he understood what he mourned. He was a church without a steeple, a Harry without Snape.

* * *

"Hello," he greeted the portrait, that was studiously refusing to meet his gaze.

"You should find better material," the portrait mumbled. How quaint, Harry reflected, given that they were in the town of Mumbles.

"Better material?" Harry asked, not knowing what Snape spoke about.

"You left it on the bed," Snape muttered. "The photo. You can find better material out there. There are magazines with moving, handsome men."

"You seem to know more about them than I do," Harry remarked, coming closer to the portrait, but still a few inches shy of touching the frame.

Harry was curious, hopelessly so, about what kinds of men Snape had liked. He hadn't found a good way to ask. Snape was touchy, even in death.

"You did not ask me why such a photo exists," Snape said. There was hurt in his voice, and something else that Harry could not place a finger upon. The hurt Harry understood. Snape might rail at being asked questions pertaining to his private life, but Harry knew that Snape loved it when Harry was curious about Snape.

"I did not know how to ask," Harry admitted. "I was curious. Could you tell me about it?"

Snape looked relieved. There was a sly sparkle in his eyes now and Harry suppressed a grin as he expected having to bargain for the answer. What would the deal be this time? He enjoyed most of Snape's deals. A question answered for reading a book out aloud. A game of chess for a question sometimes. A question about Harry to answer a question sometimes.

"Could you be bothered to take off your clothes?" Snape asked then, his eyes fierce as they held Harry's startled gaze.

This was a first. Harry had often, in the beginning, wondered if Snape wanted him as physically as he wanted Snape. He had not been sure how much the portrait was imbued with the essence of the dead man. He had thought that physicality did not exist on that plane. He was not unhappy to see that disproven.

Harry complied eagerly. His eagerness was spurred by the hungry gaze of the portrait he faced.

"I was but a boy," Snape whispered, greedily taking in Harry's form, Weasley-food-aided waistline and all. "I was a reckless boy. I had a cheap camera. I loved taking nude photographs of myself. There are more in those parcels, I am sure. There are photographs of me fucking my hole with wand and fingers. There are photographs of me parting my arse open and grinning at the camera wantonly waiting for a cock to plunge in. There are even photographs from that time I decided to shave off all my hair below the neck. You will like them, because I lie sprawled, legs spread, as open as a woman, olive oil dripping down into my hole, unimpeded by hair."

Harry had not expected to come back to this while walking around Oystermouth castle. He was in no state to complain. He was flushed, on his knees on the rough carpet, heaving with exertion as he pumped his cock furiously. His eyes were wide and fixed on the portrait, his toes curling with the delicious, wanton, lewd descriptions that Snape whispered.

"You are a powerful man," Snape continued, drowning Harry in his voice. "You would have loved to have me on my knees, sucking your cock like I was born to do that. You would have loved to bend me over that tattered armchair of Dumbledore's which you are fond of. You would have loved to draw broken whimpers and pleas from me as your tongue and fingers readied my arse slowly and playfully for your cock. You would have loved to hold me down by the neck, pressing my face into the chair, all the while teasing me about how I rutted against fabric so shamelessly while you plunged in and out of my hole."

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed. Sweat trickled down in streams down his torso, his hand was slippery with pre-cum, and his knees were shaking with the effort of holding himself upright. His imagination had run loose, dancing to the filthy tune of Snape's voice, as his mind supplied him with visuals of all that Snape spoke of.

"You would come on my face and smear it into my skin, wouldn't you?" Snape asked, his voice now heavy with what Harry registered as desire. "You would come in my arse and dare me to walk around the school with your release dripping out of my hole down my legs."

"Would you do that? Would you do any of that?" Harry asked, breathless and madly afloat on the wings of those dark words.

"I would beg for all of that," Snape promised, his eyes now as blazing as wildfire.

Harry came. He fell, panting and shuddering, onto the carpet.

* * *

"How was your summer sojourn?" Minerva asked.

"Quite remarkable," Harry replied. "The weather was pleasant, the castles old and the walks nice."

"Did Severus's portrait like any of it?" Minerva queried, genuinely curious.

Harry grinned.

* * *

It had taken a few days before Harry could persuade the Snape in the portrait to speak with him again. Snape had been mortified later, when Harry had come to a few hours after that blinding episode of mad passion.

"You should do better to forget all of it," Snape had muttered often when Harry had tried to coax him into conversation.

Harry had persisted, and the same persistence that had seen him prevail over the Dark Lord saw Snape eventually succumb to questions.

"Why?"

"Why not?" Snape had said darkly. "I have loved two men, one during my life, and one after. Powerful men whom anybody would be happy to surrender to in a passionate adventure. The returns are phenomenal, after all."

Harry scrunched his nose at that. He had had interludes with men and women both. He had not quite heard anyone raving about their experiences with him as phenomenal. He knew about the other man that Snape spoke of. He was reasonably certain that Voldemort had been better at sex than Harry was, if only because that mad bastard had been a perfectionist in all that he chose to do from murder to playing chess.

"What did he have of you?" Harry asked, curious. Harry could well imagine Voldemort having a plethora of warped ways in bed.

Snape shrugged, and said with a touch of black humour, "It would surprise many to know that there was nothing he wanted that disagreed with me."

"You think you will find my whims equally to your tastes?"

"You are powerful and generous," Snape said, making the compliment sound like a barb. "If I had been luckier, I would have been alive to reap the benefits of that combination."

For the first time since Harry had spoken to the portrait, Snape sounded regretful about his death.

"Take off your robes. I bet the laws of the portrait plane allow that," Harry said. "I want to see you naked and still, arms over your head, legs as wide as you can spread them."

Snape looked shocked, then nodded shakily. Harry settled down in the tattered armchair and placed a glass of whisky by his left elbow. This would be a wonderful night, he could tell, and he inhaled sharply when Snape obeyed his commands. Snape was a lovely, ugly creature, as Dylan Thomas's town of Swansea had been.

"Your eyes don't mock," Snape said nervously, shaking even as he strove to keep still.

"You are the bravest man I have known," Harry said solemnly. "What is there to mock? Enough of such conversation for tonight, though."

"What do you want of me?" the portrait asked, hoarse of voice.

Harry decided that it had been a splendid idea to take that Swansea holiday.

"You would please me greatly if you could suck your fingers wet, get on your fours, turn over, spread your arse and fuck yourself with those lovely, wet, long fingers. I would do it myself, but we will have to make do, in this act as in many other acts to follow, since I can't get into that portrait."

"I want you to tie me down, gently, like this," the portrait rasped, rocking back and forth on the fingers that were following Harry's instructions. "I want you to then walk around me, as I stay sprawled and tied down, and whisper to me all that you would make me do. Perhaps you would plug my hole with some trinket that you chose and taunt me with what errands you would have me run for you later. Perhaps you would take me like this and then leave me here in my bonds, soiled and happy."

"Perhaps I would hold you down and fill you, and relentlessly pound you until you came screaming with my name the only chant living on your lips."

"Your name was the only chant on my lips as I died," Snape said then, looking wretched and helpless, and still in the grip of passion that Harry had directed him into. His voice broke and he slumped, passion carrying him over.

Harry came too, and he was sobbing, with desire and rage and grief burning him at that declaration. He knew that those words Snape had spoken were true. Snape had never lied, not to him.

He also knew what name would be the sole chant on his lips when he died.

He felt an affinity for those little houses in Mumbles, made of ships wrecked. Harry knew that his too was a life made of the men who had died for him, made mostly of the heart and soul of this man who had died to save him, made of this brave man who, even now, bravely dared to give Harry everything he desired and asked for.

"Harry?"

He was a church without its steeple, but he would make the best of it.

Harry smiled at the wretched man in the portrait and said quietly, "I look forward to the day I will be in a portrait."

"I shall never have moment's peace," the man said, and he sounded accepting enough of that fate.

"You can count on that," Harry promised.

* * *

_A/N: This kind of fits into the other Snape stories I have, but it is more an excuse for portrait sex. Sorry if I offend anyone. _


End file.
